In light of new events, that timer is no longer valid, unless you mean I get to stall you for 32 minutes.
(Look, she knows what the timer was for, but she was offering a new one, okay.
She's making so many mental notes, which will most definitely come in handy in the future. He can pat himself on the back for giving her this newfound perception, when it still pays off long after it's gone. The kisses do descend eventually, the mental image almost true as she presses the kisses to his collarbone, the second button no longer closed, giving her more access.
Sophie's so ridiculously sensitive. The right touch just melts her brain into a puddle, kisses cloud her best judgement, and the way her entire body tenses and her breath shakes from the intensity of just a single touch gets sent straight to his brain, front seat, the way the aurosal makes her skin tingle in slow motion so he can enjoy it fully.
This slow shit is going to kill her. Physically, emotionally, she hates when he's right.)
[She may hate when he's right, but Quentin? Quentin can't get enough of being right. Is it his biggest turn-on? It might be. That probably means there's something deeply and fundamentally wrong with him. But honestly? Who cares. Not like Sophie is a beacon of humility over here.]
Pfft. You wanna edit the timer? Be my guest.
Quentin leans his head back with a smug little grin as she works her way further down to his collarbone and lower. She'll find that his chest is also not especially sensitive, though that doesn't make attention paid to it any less pleasing. But that's more of a "soothing his wounded insecurities" type of thing. Which, to be honest, is what a lot of this whole "relationship" is about, at least on his end. Is that his second biggest turn on? Apparently.
He finds a nice place along the side of her torso to rest his hand, just lightly moving his fingers across her skin. He'll decide how much he feels like distracting her when she answers his question about the timer.]
If Sophie were asked what this whole thing is about, she wouldn't really know how to answer. She doesn't think about these things, God forbid that both of them stop to think — she knows for a fact that she likes it, and that's all the thinking about this "relationship" she is willing to do.
The timer gets a second line, counting 5 whole minutes, copied and pasted to his sight. Clothes are currently annoying her, so she takes a second from her descent to rid herself of her top so he has more space to roam. It's not verbal confirmation, but it should suffice.
The rest of the buttons receive a similar treatment, some fumbling, kisses that intensify if she catches any reaction that she likes. Pants should be the next thing.)
[His reactions get more intense the lower she gets because, well. Proximity, obviously. And any time a particularly loud thought crosses her mind about desiring him? That makes his pulse race. He doesn't particularly understand what she sees in his thin, undermuscled frame, but damn if it doesn't make him horny as hell.]
Dare I ask what the timer is for?
[She's pretty close to her goal is all he's saying. Close enough that he takes a break from touching her to raise his hips a bit and shimmy his pants and boxers down over his ass. She can figure out how to get them the rest of the way off herself, since she's taken it upon herself to be on clothing removal duty. He sure as hell hopes she doesn't plan to spend five minutes hovering at his naval, because despite the whole "slow" routine they agreed on he's pretty sure they would both go insane. Neither of them are especially patient people in general, and the anticipation burning in his brain is making his patience start to fray.]
(Look. It's a lot of stuff that brings her here, to a place where she genuinely wants to do this with him. It's that smug, idiotic face that he makes, or the laughter that he can pull from her without even trying, the way he looks at her when they're allowed to look at each other abnormally, and how his skin feels, how he sounds, the fucking asshole. Look, what can she do, she wants him, she has him, in what world doesn't she appreciate that and him as she can, doesn't find the entire package an annoying, relentless combo, but also attractive as hell? Let her live.
Which, well, again, very unCuckoo-like. She could ruin him. Make him so impossibly impatient that he melts in her hands. Beg, want her more and more with each touch, because that's what she's perfectly good at. Puddle him. It's not what she does, nor something that ever crosses her mind when she's with him.
With his question, there's a smile that comes to her face that tells him that, no, he daren't. He'll see. It's how long she'll take this slow routine for with him in her mouth, so she begins. Experimental, slow, and yet so incredibly thorough, her mind attuned to the detailing and to his own, seeing what works for him best and what doesn't, because she's going to hone it.)
[Quentin drops his head back against the couch with a strained noise and closes his eyes for a second or two to get his breathing under control, his hand moving to the top of her head. He's not putting any pressure on her, just grounding himself for now.]
Hold on—just... let me—
[This slow shit is excruciating, but at least it's helping him keep his mind more or less clear, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't bother cuing her—she's connected to his mind, which means she's fully capable of finding that delicious sweet spot between "too much" and "not enough" without his guidance. Maybe at some point during the next five minutes he'll want more direct involvement, but for now he's fine letting her steer.]
(The only reason why Sophie's holding off (for now) on more telepathic bullshit is just because he asked her to.
She likes doing it, although she's blocking the pleasure sharing specifically so not to get distracted from her own bubble of enjoyment. He feels too damn much, which is often great, but right now she wants to work in the perfect window she found him asking for.
When he's more stable? What she sends him is what she feels, one of those moments where she feels comfortable letting him know something with enough plausibility to her thoughts. It's more of what she had confirmed before she started — how much she enjoys him without conditions, expectations, or need for power or control, how the sound of his breathing is almost making her foresake the timer, impatience and desire raw, wordless, but more than anything, genuine.
She knows he likes knowing, hearing straight from her — hence why he asks her to talk. She can open a single exception for today only and tell him without the need of making him go through a rollercoaster of her being difficult.
[To be fair, she has a perfectly valid excuse for not telling him verbally the way he usually wants. She feels fucking incredible, and when the desire from her end of their telepathic connection washes over him, he has to curl his fingers in her hair and grip the end of the couch to stop himself from bucking his hips.]
Shit—fuck—yeah, that.
[Sophie's being a team player and letting him feel how much she wants him without making him work for it, so he'll do her the favor of forcing her to acknowledge what he wants. She's getting away with just a "that" this time. You're welcome, Sophie.
He tilts his head down again and pulls her hair away from her face so he can make eye contact as she's working him with her mouth. The visual is exquisite, but even better is the hunger in her expression.]
(Without his overdetailed pleasure bouncing in her brain, she has the opportunity to pay attention to a series of events that wouldn't be available to her on a different occasion. From the way his thoughts run through her spine, and how fast she can flood his mind with her feelings. How she does something just right that he's having to put effort not to instinctively thrust, the heavy breathing. She has a feeling that if she were to not listen and speed up, he'd be overwhelmed very quickly — not what she wants. Two minutes left on the clock.
Months ago, everything about them today would be unimaginable, she assumes for both of them. The honesty on her end, the lifting of vetoes on his, the idea of giving just because, well, yes.
His hand on her hair does bring her eyes to his, accurate in perception, but it also comes with a small smile hiding on the corners of her lips before she descends fully.
[It's both the longest and shortest four minutes of Quentin's entire stupid life. Probably. Well, probably not. He's had a weird life. But right now it's the longest and shortest he can remember. Which isn't really all that impressive, because he's looking Sophie in the eye as she takes him entirely into her mouth, and that admittedly is occupying a lot of his brainpower at the moment. He'd wondered briefly before if she intended this to be an elaborate warm up, but that smile tells him all he needs to know—she wants him to finish like this. Which means as the timer ticks over to the last minute, things are about to ramp up.
He tightens his fingers in her hair ever so slightly, nudges his hips gently upward, and looks down at her questioningly. Not that he's completely sold on the option he's presenting. If she prefers to drive him over the edge completely unassisted, that's fine with him too.]
(He's correct in his assumptions, she's keeping a very close eye on his thought process — new territory, previously vetoed, so she just has to know. One minute means she's going to abandon the slowness and replace it with something fiercer. She's got a deadline, after all, and since he didn't complain in any shape or form about it, she's just presuming that's fine with him.
She also senses the uncertainty on his end over his actions — it's fine. If he keeps it mindful as he currently is, she has no qualms about it, which she easily sends to his brain as confirmation. Who would have thought that sex fixed their communication issues, look at that? Quentin might be the person (hivemind aside) she's communicated with most her entire freaking life, what in the actual fuck. Didn't she use to loathe him? How things change.
Sophie knows he's close, which makes the way he puts it bring a smile to the corners of her lips again. Obviously, she is unable to reply to him in the same vein.)
/Your call./
(Read: she really doesn't care. Efficiency and ease means she just swallows, there's no place to spit, anywhere else makes a mess, but, really, whatever happens happens. She's fine with the alternatives.)
[For all of it, apparently. He smirks, even if it's a little lopsided and breathless. Cool.
He uses the hand in her hair to push her head down at the same time as he rocks his hips, the movement experimental and mindful of her comfort. Then he repeats it a few more times, trying to find a rhythm, but... Hmm. Sure, he groans openly every time she takes him fully, but it's not enough, and he makes a frustrated noise. Forty seconds.
There have been plenty of times where what he prefers is to be selfish, to take his pleasure with her just along for the ride. But this? This only happened because she wanted it. Wanted him. No sex is ever really selfless for telepaths, but this is about as close as anyone could get to that: she gets off on him getting off, and he gets off on her wanting to get him off, and also a blowjob is involved there somewhere.
He looks down at her, thinks, and... lets go of her hair. Moves his hand to the couch.]
Changed my mind. [He tries to shrug nonchalantly. And fails. Whatever.]
(... Is he sure? He has got to know that her worst is, well, insane. It's who she is, and considering who he is and how his hyperdetailed world is like, he might die, but fine. There's a first time for everything, and as far as first times go, this is actually good.
Okay. First things first is to intensify what is already intense — his perception, but she'll filter it to dim everything else that isn't coming from her so there's no stimuli that could shift his focus. Secondly, a gentle edging. Everytime she descends, he's closer to a moving goalpost that moves just an inch away from him. Third is physical, amping up speed and intensity with each time she takes him.
Ten seconds. Then she lets go of the second item on her list. He's free.)
[He knew what he was asking for, and she doesn't disappoint. After all that slow build up, the sudden jump in intensity is welcome. Almost a relief in a way. Even the edging he can feel her doing feels more like scratching an itch than the psuedo-torture it's probably meant to be. His hands grip the couch cushions instinctively, though with her sensory bullshit he's barely aware of it, and he tries to keep his eyes on her and force his hips to remain still, both with moderate success. He can also dimly hear himself rambling miscellaneous praise and encouragement, which is a little embarrassing but whatever. What's she going to do, judge him? Not likely.
She takes him again and again, faster and faster, and the instant she allows him to release he does. But the bonus of asking for this? Of the timer? It means he has enough spare brainpower set aside so he can shove his pleasure into her brain. They almost always go together, after all, so it's only fair that she get at least an echo of the spectacular orgasm she gave him.]
(Not judging him for it, no worries, she judges him enough for enough outside of sex, and at this point she's very used to how he sounds and talks in it. They fuck way too often for her not to be.
Holy shit, at least it was an echo. She blocked his pleasure receptors from their telepathic synch for two reasons — one, because piggybacking on it was not the point of it. It was, you know, for her, and for him, different sources of delight that were not tied to physical pleasure on her end. Second, because holy shit, she knew it would distract her, her hand moving to squeeze the nearest cushion so she can swallow in peace and ride it out, her breathing hitched and her brain a little fried from the sudden release of dopamine it wasn't expecting.
And she's back up, trying to fix her breathing before looking at him again, trying not to laugh in joy because... Wow.)
[Quentin slumps back into the couch, trying to get his breathing and heart rate under control. Damn... And look, he fried her brain a little bit too, which he counts as a bonus win. When she speaks, he lifts his head briefly to look at her with a lazy, pleased expression and drops his head back again.]
Pretty sure I am, yeah.
[He pries his fingers out of the death grip they had on the couch cushions, flexing the stiffness out of his joints, and then stretches his arms up languidly. When he can move without wanting to die, he kicks off his pants and pulls up his boxers.]
Just thinking about how I'm gonna return the favor.
(She'd be much more melted mush than this after a round, right now she's at a 30% mush rate, since she attacked him. The kiss she presses to his temple is brief before she fishes back her cardigan, not bothering with the top.
Oh, right, she has to return his brain to normalcy. Sorry, someone distracted her, there he goes. With an eye roll and a smile, she gives him a little kick with no strength to it whatsoever — he doesn't have to. There was plenty of enrichment for her, too.
Since the plan today is to chill for fucking once, she's not concerned about the timer that still runs. Let him rest a little, it's not like guys work like girls anyway. She knows he's gonna need to breathe for a while.)
[Oh, he's not in a big hurry. Quentin waves off the offer of coffee, even though he yawns immediately after.]
Well, the obvious is out. [Despite his "evolving" stance on receiving, giving is an entirely different can of worms. She's vetoed that one herself too.]
There's always my first idea.
[He taps his temple with a sly look before folding his arms behind his head and turning back to look at the ceiling.]
Gotta say, I don't like that the score's not even. I wanna fix that before I'm back to full functionality, so to speak.
(Maybe one day she'll feel secure enough for it. Things change here in the little bubble they quietly inhabit, but as for now? It's still too uncomfortable a thought for her to backtrack on, and she's sure it is for him, too.
His first idea being their stupid horny Olympics, she assumes. It's not a bad one, and it's better than just sitting around idly until male biology cooperates with them. He doesn't have his niche little hobbies in her room, and he isn't so fond of games to truly appreciate the wonders she has in her drawers.
Interesting, though? The comatose she requested for the scheduling mishap does seem reachable if they keep at it.)
So, back to trying to distract me. It isn't the worst idea you've had. I just got a little distracted.
(Not like she's going to let him live through it either.)
Okay. Let's fix the score, you're on. Get to the desk while I find my nail polish.
(She's already waving in dismissal the very likely quip about finding something in the mess that is her room.)
[She gets up, and Quentin grabs her wrist to stop her.]
Not that first idea. Unless you wanna add another hour to that timer before I can use both of my hands properly. I meant my other first idea. You know.
[He gently strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist and reaches into her mind to light up every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. And yes, he does look impossibly smug. As usual.]
The one where I get you off like this. Then we'll be even.
(Maybe enumerate your ideas better next time. Just saying.
Technically, the sentiment is similar — giving, to put it broadly, although his initiative comes with score-settling to back it up. That feels... Much, much more comfortable for her to put that physical distance between them, it allows her more freedom to play around right back at him and distract him if he gets way too damn close. It's an acceptable loophole, and she'll figure out how she feels as they go.
There's never any real defense or pushback that isn't petty, expected foreplay from her when he reaches, and this time is no different. Free-flowing, she feels the warmth travel from her spine down, eyes closing so she can let out an exhale.
If she was ever on the fence before, that smug grin pulls her right back into action. Unsure whether he knows that works for her, or if that's just him in general, but either way.)
Deal.
(Once she's sitting back where she had been, she's just diving for a heated kiss so she can wipe the smug off his lips.)
[She should know better than to think she can wipe the smug off Quentin Quire. His smug is eternal. Unstoppable. You wipe the smug look off his face but he has a second smaller smug look under it. Omega level smugness.
He returns the kiss, but doesn't touch her aside from the hand still on her wrist. She's allowed to touch him all she wants, he's arbitrarily decided, but he only gets the wrist. Every game needs rules, even if they're ones he just made up. The challenge here isn't how he can touch her, it's how he can make her feel him touching her without actually doing it. Like the invisible kiss to the sensitive part of her neck. Or the hands that aren't there sliding down her back, sending more of that warmth down her spine.]
(Yeah, she knows it's impossible, but she's no quitter. Go down fighting, or else what is the fun in anything?
He doesn't need to state the rules; she's already understood them from the fact that his hands aren't perfectly locked in the curve of her waist, not on her thighs, nor anywhere but the wrist he took. That's fine by her, actually. If he had forgone kissing, then she'd be in trouble, but he didn't — it means she gets to enjoy it in addition to the very real (to her) touches he's giving her, a smile forming against his lips as she lets out a sigh.
He knows she loves telepathy. Knows this works for her perfectly, but she just has to be a little difficult even if her spare hand on his cheek caresses skin, and she fights the grin from widening as she continues the kiss.)
/Jury's still out./
(Nope, jury likes it. The jury approves. She knows he knows.)
[There are several erogenous zones on the human body, the stimulation of which induces arousal in the brain. And today, Quentin has decided that the inner wrist of Sophie's hand is one of them. Or it will be, once he finishes nudging around a few things in her head. Don't worry, he'll put everything back where he found it when he's done! And yes, the invisible hands and lips touching her are meant to distract her while he's working on that. Classic sleight of hand. Or uh, sleight of... brain. Whatever.]
/What if I've got additional evidence to submit?/
[Not how court works, but he doesn't expect her to nitpick the logic of stupid banter. Especially when he lightly rubs his pointer finger over the back of her wrist, which should—if he's as amazing as he thinks he is, and let's face it, he is—give her a nice teasing little jolt down her spine. And, more importantly, a really entertaining reaction for him to enjoy.]
(Ah, to trust. Surely not with everything or without a lot of work to pull it out of her, she's not insane, but with telepathic bullshit, there is not an ounce of suspicion or uncertainty. She knows he's in there, she feels him in her head and the kisses and touches he's making her feel, but whatever the additional fuck he's doing, she's not particularly worried about it.
Wait, is he the defense or prosecution — this is so stupid that it finally makes her give in the chuckle she was fighting before, thus breaking the kiss.)
Seriously, you gotta stop making me laugh, I can't kiss and laugh and talk.
(Do not though, that's honestly one of the top tier things she enjoys.
Oh. That's what the additional fuck he was doing. Rewiring nerves. Unexpected, it pulls a small breathy moan from her, still close enough that he can enjoy the microexpressions of 'I like this, but also fuck you'. It includes the nose crinkle.)
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(Look, she knows what the timer was for, but she was offering a new one, okay.
She's making so many mental notes, which will most definitely come in handy in the future. He can pat himself on the back for giving her this newfound perception, when it still pays off long after it's gone. The kisses do descend eventually, the mental image almost true as she presses the kisses to his collarbone, the second button no longer closed, giving her more access.
Sophie's so ridiculously sensitive. The right touch just melts her brain into a puddle, kisses cloud her best judgement, and the way her entire body tenses and her breath shakes from the intensity of just a single touch gets sent straight to his brain, front seat, the way the aurosal makes her skin tingle in slow motion so he can enjoy it fully.
This slow shit is going to kill her. Physically, emotionally, she hates when he's right.)
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Pfft. You wanna edit the timer? Be my guest.
Quentin leans his head back with a smug little grin as she works her way further down to his collarbone and lower. She'll find that his chest is also not especially sensitive, though that doesn't make attention paid to it any less pleasing. But that's more of a "soothing his wounded insecurities" type of thing. Which, to be honest, is what a lot of this whole "relationship" is about, at least on his end. Is that his second biggest turn on? Apparently.
He finds a nice place along the side of her torso to rest his hand, just lightly moving his fingers across her skin. He'll decide how much he feels like distracting her when she answers his question about the timer.]
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If Sophie were asked what this whole thing is about, she wouldn't really know how to answer. She doesn't think about these things, God forbid that both of them stop to think — she knows for a fact that she likes it, and that's all the thinking about this "relationship" she is willing to do.
The timer gets a second line, counting 5 whole minutes, copied and pasted to his sight. Clothes are currently annoying her, so she takes a second from her descent to rid herself of her top so he has more space to roam. It's not verbal confirmation, but it should suffice.
The rest of the buttons receive a similar treatment, some fumbling, kisses that intensify if she catches any reaction that she likes. Pants should be the next thing.)
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Dare I ask what the timer is for?
[She's pretty close to her goal is all he's saying. Close enough that he takes a break from touching her to raise his hips a bit and shimmy his pants and boxers down over his ass. She can figure out how to get them the rest of the way off herself, since she's taken it upon herself to be on clothing removal duty. He sure as hell hopes she doesn't plan to spend five minutes hovering at his naval, because despite the whole "slow" routine they agreed on he's pretty sure they would both go insane. Neither of them are especially patient people in general, and the anticipation burning in his brain is making his patience start to fray.]
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Which, well, again, very unCuckoo-like. She could ruin him. Make him so impossibly impatient that he melts in her hands. Beg, want her more and more with each touch, because that's what she's perfectly good at. Puddle him. It's not what she does, nor something that ever crosses her mind when she's with him.
With his question, there's a smile that comes to her face that tells him that, no, he daren't. He'll see. It's how long she'll take this slow routine for with him in her mouth, so she begins. Experimental, slow, and yet so incredibly thorough, her mind attuned to the detailing and to his own, seeing what works for him best and what doesn't, because she's going to hone it.)
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Oh, fuck.
[Quentin drops his head back against the couch with a strained noise and closes his eyes for a second or two to get his breathing under control, his hand moving to the top of her head. He's not putting any pressure on her, just grounding himself for now.]
Hold on—just... let me—
[This slow shit is excruciating, but at least it's helping him keep his mind more or less clear, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't bother cuing her—she's connected to his mind, which means she's fully capable of finding that delicious sweet spot between "too much" and "not enough" without his guidance. Maybe at some point during the next five minutes he'll want more direct involvement, but for now he's fine letting her steer.]
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She likes doing it, although she's blocking the pleasure sharing specifically so not to get distracted from her own bubble of enjoyment. He feels too damn much, which is often great, but right now she wants to work in the perfect window she found him asking for.
When he's more stable? What she sends him is what she feels, one of those moments where she feels comfortable letting him know something with enough plausibility to her thoughts. It's more of what she had confirmed before she started — how much she enjoys him without conditions, expectations, or need for power or control, how the sound of his breathing is almost making her foresake the timer, impatience and desire raw, wordless, but more than anything, genuine.
She knows he likes knowing, hearing straight from her — hence why he asks her to talk. She can open a single exception for today only and tell him without the need of making him go through a rollercoaster of her being difficult.
Just today.)
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Shit—fuck—yeah, that.
[Sophie's being a team player and letting him feel how much she wants him without making him work for it, so he'll do her the favor of forcing her to acknowledge what he wants. She's getting away with just a "that" this time. You're welcome, Sophie.
He tilts his head down again and pulls her hair away from her face so he can make eye contact as she's working him with her mouth. The visual is exquisite, but even better is the hunger in her expression.]
Keep doing that. Stay slow. Slow's good.
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Months ago, everything about them today would be unimaginable, she assumes for both of them. The honesty on her end, the lifting of vetoes on his, the idea of giving just because, well, yes.
His hand on her hair does bring her eyes to his, accurate in perception, but it also comes with a small smile hiding on the corners of her lips before she descends fully.
One minute.)
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He tightens his fingers in her hair ever so slightly, nudges his hips gently upward, and looks down at her questioningly. Not that he's completely sold on the option he's presenting. If she prefers to drive him over the edge completely unassisted, that's fine with him too.]
Home, ah—home stretch. Yeah? How do you...?
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She also senses the uncertainty on his end over his actions — it's fine. If he keeps it mindful as he currently is, she has no qualms about it, which she easily sends to his brain as confirmation. Who would have thought that sex fixed their communication issues, look at that? Quentin might be the person (hivemind aside) she's communicated with most her entire freaking life, what in the actual fuck. Didn't she use to loathe him? How things change.
Sophie knows he's close, which makes the way he puts it bring a smile to the corners of her lips again. Obviously, she is unable to reply to him in the same vein.)
/Your call./
(Read: she really doesn't care. Efficiency and ease means she just swallows, there's no place to spit, anywhere else makes a mess, but, really, whatever happens happens. She's fine with the alternatives.)
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[For all of it, apparently. He smirks, even if it's a little lopsided and breathless. Cool.
He uses the hand in her hair to push her head down at the same time as he rocks his hips, the movement experimental and mindful of her comfort. Then he repeats it a few more times, trying to find a rhythm, but... Hmm. Sure, he groans openly every time she takes him fully, but it's not enough, and he makes a frustrated noise. Forty seconds.
There have been plenty of times where what he prefers is to be selfish, to take his pleasure with her just along for the ride. But this? This only happened because she wanted it. Wanted him. No sex is ever really selfless for telepaths, but this is about as close as anyone could get to that: she gets off on him getting off, and he gets off on her wanting to get him off, and also a blowjob is involved there somewhere.
He looks down at her, thinks, and... lets go of her hair. Moves his hand to the couch.]
Changed my mind. [He tries to shrug nonchalantly. And fails. Whatever.]
Do your worst.
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Okay. First things first is to intensify what is already intense — his perception, but she'll filter it to dim everything else that isn't coming from her so there's no stimuli that could shift his focus. Secondly, a gentle edging. Everytime she descends, he's closer to a moving goalpost that moves just an inch away from him. Third is physical, amping up speed and intensity with each time she takes him.
Ten seconds. Then she lets go of the second item on her list. He's free.)
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She takes him again and again, faster and faster, and the instant she allows him to release he does. But the bonus of asking for this? Of the timer? It means he has enough spare brainpower set aside so he can shove his pleasure into her brain. They almost always go together, after all, so it's only fair that she get at least an echo of the spectacular orgasm she gave him.]
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Holy shit, at least it was an echo. She blocked his pleasure receptors from their telepathic synch for two reasons — one, because piggybacking on it was not the point of it. It was, you know, for her, and for him, different sources of delight that were not tied to physical pleasure on her end. Second, because holy shit, she knew it would distract her, her hand moving to squeeze the nearest cushion so she can swallow in peace and ride it out, her breathing hitched and her brain a little fried from the sudden release of dopamine it wasn't expecting.
And she's back up, trying to fix her breathing before looking at him again, trying not to laugh in joy because... Wow.)
Hey. Alive?
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Pretty sure I am, yeah.
[He pries his fingers out of the death grip they had on the couch cushions, flexing the stiffness out of his joints, and then stretches his arms up languidly. When he can move without wanting to die, he kicks off his pants and pulls up his boxers.]
Just thinking about how I'm gonna return the favor.
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(She'd be much more melted mush than this after a round, right now she's at a 30% mush rate, since she attacked him. The kiss she presses to his temple is brief before she fishes back her cardigan, not bothering with the top.
Oh, right, she has to return his brain to normalcy. Sorry, someone distracted her, there he goes. With an eye roll and a smile, she gives him a little kick with no strength to it whatsoever — he doesn't have to. There was plenty of enrichment for her, too.
Since the plan today is to chill for fucking once, she's not concerned about the timer that still runs. Let him rest a little, it's not like guys work like girls anyway. She knows he's gonna need to breathe for a while.)
Share with the class. You want some coffee?
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Well, the obvious is out. [Despite his "evolving" stance on receiving, giving is an entirely different can of worms. She's vetoed that one herself too.]
There's always my first idea.
[He taps his temple with a sly look before folding his arms behind his head and turning back to look at the ceiling.]
Gotta say, I don't like that the score's not even. I wanna fix that before I'm back to full functionality, so to speak.
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(Maybe one day she'll feel secure enough for it. Things change here in the little bubble they quietly inhabit, but as for now? It's still too uncomfortable a thought for her to backtrack on, and she's sure it is for him, too.
His first idea being their stupid horny Olympics, she assumes. It's not a bad one, and it's better than just sitting around idly until male biology cooperates with them. He doesn't have his niche little hobbies in her room, and he isn't so fond of games to truly appreciate the wonders she has in her drawers.
Interesting, though? The comatose she requested for the scheduling mishap does seem reachable if they keep at it.)
So, back to trying to distract me. It isn't the worst idea you've had. I just got a little distracted.
(Not like she's going to let him live through it either.)
Okay. Let's fix the score, you're on. Get to the desk while I find my nail polish.
(She's already waving in dismissal the very likely quip about finding something in the mess that is her room.)
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[She gets up, and Quentin grabs her wrist to stop her.]
Not that first idea. Unless you wanna add another hour to that timer before I can use both of my hands properly. I meant my other first idea. You know.
[He gently strokes his thumb over the inside of her wrist and reaches into her mind to light up every nerve ending in her body with pleasure. And yes, he does look impossibly smug. As usual.]
The one where I get you off like this. Then we'll be even.
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Technically, the sentiment is similar — giving, to put it broadly, although his initiative comes with score-settling to back it up. That feels... Much, much more comfortable for her to put that physical distance between them, it allows her more freedom to play around right back at him and distract him if he gets way too damn close. It's an acceptable loophole, and she'll figure out how she feels as they go.
There's never any real defense or pushback that isn't petty, expected foreplay from her when he reaches, and this time is no different. Free-flowing, she feels the warmth travel from her spine down, eyes closing so she can let out an exhale.
If she was ever on the fence before, that smug grin pulls her right back into action. Unsure whether he knows that works for her, or if that's just him in general, but either way.)
Deal.
(Once she's sitting back where she had been, she's just diving for a heated kiss so she can wipe the smug off his lips.)
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He returns the kiss, but doesn't touch her aside from the hand still on her wrist. She's allowed to touch him all she wants, he's arbitrarily decided, but he only gets the wrist. Every game needs rules, even if they're ones he just made up. The challenge here isn't how he can touch her, it's how he can make her feel him touching her without actually doing it. Like the invisible kiss to the sensitive part of her neck. Or the hands that aren't there sliding down her back, sending more of that warmth down her spine.]
/How's that?/
[As if he doesn't know.]
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He doesn't need to state the rules; she's already understood them from the fact that his hands aren't perfectly locked in the curve of her waist, not on her thighs, nor anywhere but the wrist he took. That's fine by her, actually. If he had forgone kissing, then she'd be in trouble, but he didn't — it means she gets to enjoy it in addition to the very real (to her) touches he's giving her, a smile forming against his lips as she lets out a sigh.
He knows she loves telepathy. Knows this works for her perfectly, but she just has to be a little difficult even if her spare hand on his cheek caresses skin, and she fights the grin from widening as she continues the kiss.)
/Jury's still out./
(Nope, jury likes it. The jury approves. She knows he knows.)
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/What if I've got additional evidence to submit?/
[Not how court works, but he doesn't expect her to nitpick the logic of stupid banter. Especially when he lightly rubs his pointer finger over the back of her wrist, which should—if he's as amazing as he thinks he is, and let's face it, he is—give her a nice teasing little jolt down her spine. And, more importantly, a really entertaining reaction for him to enjoy.]
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Wait, is he the defense or prosecution — this is so stupid that it finally makes her give in the chuckle she was fighting before, thus breaking the kiss.)
Seriously, you gotta stop making me laugh, I can't kiss and laugh and talk.
(Do not though, that's honestly one of the top tier things she enjoys.
Oh. That's what the additional fuck he was doing. Rewiring nerves. Unexpected, it pulls a small breathy moan from her, still close enough that he can enjoy the microexpressions of 'I like this, but also fuck you'. It includes the nose crinkle.)
... Sneaky.
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